


Elwen's Drabbledom

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Beer, Dead Marshes, Drabble Collection, Dwarves, Elves, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hobbits, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Lothlórien, Moria, Mount Doom, Mpreg, Rivendell, Trollshaws, the sea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 10,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6033072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I love drabbles.  They fill up the corners and allow me to play with fanfic in a spare  half hour.  So whenever I have a few I'll be posting them here.  They'll cover all sorts of Tolkien characters in all kinds of situations.  Dip in during you coffee break.  Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Everything belongs to JRR Tolkien. I'm only looking at them slightly sideways on, and I hope he doesn't mind too much.

And They All Lived Happily Ever After.

Dear Bilbo. Frodo smiled at the scrap of paper in his hands containing his uncle’s suggestion for the ending of their book.

“And he lived happily to the end of his days.”

If only that could be. He rubbed his shoulder, too aware that there were deeper wounds. 

In the autumn sun beyond his study window Rosie hummed a lullaby and Frodo sighed for what would never be his. This empty husk had nothing left to offer wife and bairn.  
There would be no happy ending for Frodo in the Shire but perhaps he would find contentment in the West.

END

 

Barleyman’s Brew.

It looked right; a deep, loamy brown that was sparklingly clear when held to the light. Pip sniffed, then inhaled deeply. Hops. The fumes alone set his head swimming and he found himself grinning. Real beer. Not that pale, flat stuff served down south but good honest bitter with a creamy smooth head to coat your upper lip.

Diving right in, he took a big gulp and his eyes lit as the round combination of tartness and malt filled his long parched mouth.

Of course, nothing could match the ale in The Green Dragon but Barleyman’s would do. Oh yes.

END

 

SLASH

“She wrote what?” Faramir’s eyes widened, glancing down at the diminutive form at his side. 

Frodo essayed a weak smile. “It’s a sweet . . . love . . . story. You’d like it.”

This was met with raised brows. “And who am I supposed to be in love with?”

A blush crept over Frodo’s cheeks but he could not tear himself away from Faramir’s gold dusted face. He swallowed, hard.

“Me.”

Faramir blinked . . . suddenly captivated by those wide blue eyes. The flush of colour that brushed Frodo’s alabaster cheekbones was really quite becoming . . . 

END

 

CHALLENGE

The dark haired one was feisty. Lightening flickered in his eyes, and even now he strained against Talvin’s grip, diminutive size fortunately making the match unequal, or Faramir had no doubt he would have broken free.

He watched as the two captives were bound and blindfolded. Initially, their size had made him think they were orcs, but closer examination showed they were too fair. Children perhaps? Any childlike impressions had been ripped away by the challenge in those bright blue eyes and dark scowl, however. The Ranger of Ithilien was almost looking forward to locking verbal swords with this one.

 

END

 

SUMMER LIGHTENING

Not orcs, yet I have never seen their like. Back to back, they stand little higher than my waist, but are not children. Alike, yet not, one blusters like village lad to a bully. 

The other stands silent and although his features mirror his companion’s fear, bright light glimmers behind those blue eyes. Flickering like summer lightening on the horizon, it rivals the sunlight glinting off fine, pale blade in his hand.

Yet it is to the other hand that my eye is drawn . . . the one clutching at his breast. My heart whispers, “There lies the threat.”

END

 

FRODO OF THE NINE FINGERS

He studied Sam, watching his face light up as the minstrel retold their journey. Sam deserved this recognition. He had endured much and this was part of his reward . . . to have those efforts recognised.

Frodo ensured that his face reacted appropriately while another part of him withdrew. Would that his own reactions were as happy as Sam’s. What was Frodo’s reward? He had only failure and loss . . . so much loss.

Tears of joy coursed down his friend’s face. Perhaps this was his reward . . . to see Sam leaving the pain and stepping back into life.

END

 

BLACK

They're not black . . . not really. Them robes they wear are faded and dirty. Maybe they was black once, but they're not now. But mayhap it's not the clothes as makes 'em black? It's what's inside 'em. 

And what's inside my master now . . . that's black. They put it there and no matter how much we wash out the wound it don't seem to go. I'm not thinkin' of the gore, neither. Its somethin' else. He ain't no Black Rider, but I can see the shadow growin’ in 'im. 

We've got to get to the elves soon. Hold on, Sir. Hold on.

END

 

FIRE AND ICE

Sharp edged agony of ice slicing through his soul. Calm voice beyond.

“I see it.”

Pressure in his chest . . . probing . . . tugging. He shrieks his loss, suddenly bereft of pain . . . only proof of life for many days.

A gruff, familiar voice. “Is he awake?”

“Barely.” A voice exhaling warm summer twilight. “Sleep, Frodo. You are safe.”

Warm fingers stroke his brow, trailing comfort in their wake and he inhales deeply of athelas and roses. The rush of distant falls washes away final echoes of pain and consciousness, flooding his heart with peace.

 

END

 

DETACHED

It was not unpleasant, this floating detachment. Frodo watched camp breaking; so orderly . . . the way an army should behave he supposed. They told him such was beneath the saviour of Middle earth and had politely guided him aside as they worked.

It was like a mummers show. Frodo saw the world move on while he watched from the wings. 

A strong arm stole about his shoulders. “Mr Frodo? Come sit with me and your cousins.” The touch grounded him clicking him back into place, like a piece in a puzzle. 

Here, with friends, he could find harbour for a while.

END

 

IN HE KEEPING OF THE KING

Frodo couldn't remember ever feeling so relaxed, so utterly content as Elrond’s firm hands slid up and down his back. Knots of worry and pain were soothed away by knowledgeable fingers gliding across his shoulders in a slick of fragrant oil. 

Frodo’s world was touch . . . firelight flickering on closed eyelids, the cradling softness of the bed beneath him, a feather light drape of woollen blankets over his legs, fingers tracing and stretching each aching muscle. 

A long and perilous journey stretched from his door, but the ringbearer existed only in the here and now . . . in comfort and peace. 

Frodo slept. 

END

 

TATERS

"Taters?" Elrond asked, one eyebrow arched. "Am I correct in thinking you mean potatoes, Master Gamgee?" 

“Aye, sir. If we could just take a few with us? I know they’re heavy, but if we ate ‘em early on Bill wouldn’t be carrying for long.” 

So early in the year the weather was still icy cold, and likely to be more so as they climbed out of this sheltered valley. Sam knew that there was nothing like taters roasted in a fire’s embers for sticking warmly to a body’s ribs. 

Little enough, but he would offer whatever comfort he could to his master. 

END


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some naughty ones on this page that may not be office friendly.

Trollshaws

Frodo fell to his knees on the rough, leafy ground, grasping his dizzy head in both hands. How much further to Rivendell? He was vaguely aware of someone supporting him as he brought back the lunch they had pressed upon him and sank exhaustedly into Merry’s arms. 

“Come on, cousin. We’ll get you settled and get a fire going.” Pippin appeared at his other side and he was half carried to the pile of blankets hurriedly spread by Sam. There his head was cradled in Pippin’s lap, and they wrapped him in all their blankets. 

Rivendell seemed too far away. 

END

 

MEMORY

Home was not far away anymore. It was only a memory away. 

He drew in another searing breath, tasting the cool air of the hill above Bag End on an autumn evening. His eyes saw, not the orange ire of a dying mountain, but the glow of a sunset against purple clouds. Sulphur was overridden by lavender and clover, the slither of a lava by the splash of a crystal stream and bare rock stabbing his back became the soft, fragrant yielding of spring grass. 

He may never touch them again, but by his efforts, others would. It was enough. 

END

 

ANBORN

"What shall be done with the halflings, Captain?" Anborn asked, his voice dropping with deference. 

His captain’s voice grew distant, a trait that indicated he was deep in thought. “Take them away and let them rest. Guard them but bring them food.” He turned away. “I need time to consider their final disposition.” 

Faramir’s mild manner shielded a keen mind and Anborn had learned to respect his instruction, even when reason denied it. The younger son of the Steward was often under estimated, even by his own kin. 

A soft whisper infiltrated his mind. “But is he right in this?” 

END

 

ABOUT BLOODY TIME!

Frodo whimpered as Aragorn widened the newly formed birth canal. 

“I’m sorry, but I must check the dilation of the upper opening. Try to breathe through this contraction.” 

The only thing preventing Frodo from kicking was Eowyn and Arwen’s firm grip on his ankles. They wouldn’t be so smug when it was their turn to endure this. 

He panted, resisting the urge to push those darned fingers into next week, and they finally withdrew. 

“Well done, Frodo. You can push with the next pain.” 

“About bloody time.” His mutter escalated into a howl as he pushed . . . with all his might. 

END

 

DANGEROUS DESIRE

Frodo felt the Ring cool against his lips. Soft as a lover’s touch, it rolled seductively between his fingers as he licked the smooth metal, tasting his own salt upon its surface. What would it be like to truly possess it? His loins heated in a way they had not for many a tiring months, body trembling on the brink of a dangerous desire. 

Sam sat up with a start. “Oh my! I must have overslept.” And Frodo dropped the Ring inside his shirt where it hung brazenly against his breast. 

Gollum smiled. He knew the Precious well. Oh yes. 

END

 

PRECIOUS BUNDLE

"What are you doing up and about, Master Baggins?" 

Frodo jumped, almost dropping his precious bundle, and turned slowly, the ache in his lower body forbidding swifter movement. 

“Calimore was crying,” he replied defensively, clutching the fretting babe.

“Which is why I am here. I believe you were instructed to ring the bell for assistance,” Elrond chided, a smile belying his stern words. 

Frodo yelped in surprise as both he and Calimore were carried back to bed. However, he made no protest when tucked snugly amongst pillows and blankets. And any further conversation was postponed as Calimore began suckling contentedly

END

 

CAKE CRUMBS

“All things in moderation. Except food, eh Frodo lad?”

The youngster giggled around a mouthful of cake, eyes widening in horror as a little shower of crumbs spattered the tablecloth. Bilbo winked, brushing the evidence onto his plate before Primula returned. 

Across the table Drogo rolled his eyes. Boys would be boys after all and a healthy appetite should not be dampened. Frodo would grow up and good table manners could be learned. 

Of course Bilbo had never grown up. Maybe that’s why he got on so well with his nephew. Drogo stifled a groan as he considered the future. 

END

PORTRAIT

Leaf dappled starlight caresses her face and the perfume of distant roses drifts through open casement.

He kneels, naked and moon-limned, murmuring her name. Fingers glide over firm planes of chest and belly, tracing ancient pattern, teasing dusky nipple, affirming life. 

Sweat slick friction encases firm heat as he moves in pattern so long familiar and moonlight writhes, wanton on pale skin. Dark head is flung back in wordless cry, poised upon the apex of time. Then he slumps, the pearled libation of his love swallowed by empty pillow. 

No completion. Only the emptiness of five hundred years of loss. 

END


	3. Chapter 3

HOBBIT FOOTSTEPS

 

The sweet scent of crushed grass envelopes him as he prances, giggling and sparkling eyed, among the swirl and caper of dancers. Short cropped blades of green poke teasingly between his toes, tickling his instep and cushioning his heels. Two gross of feet have stepped and danced, paused and strolled upon this grassy carpet yet it holds life so abundantly that it recoils at once . . . ready to embrace another foot as willing lads and lasses line up toe to toe for the next birthday reel. 

Frodo Baggins, coming of age today, wishes this night would never end.

 

The ground is so compacted beneath his feet, it is difficult to know where earth ends and ancient crazed pavement begins, on the stone ringed hilltop. The bones of this land are clad in the thinnest of flesh, beaten down over aeons . . . wind-tossed whips of grass the only things capable of wresting life from its grip. It gives no succour to those compelled to cross its world-weary surface.

Steady rain falls but the ground drinks greedily, hoarding moisture below where it can make no softening for tired, cold feet.

Frodo wishes this fear-filled, echoing night would end.

 

 

The rustle of leaves underfoot makes silent passage impossible for even a hobbit in this cloven vale. But there is no need now of stealth, for no black cloaked enemy stalks this elven sanctuary. Here there is only healing and comfort, love and life.

Each footstep releases a damp, rich smell that speaks of things waning but still strong, of life past but never forgotten. Soil is ages deep, underlayed with strong grey mountain granite, supporting firmly . . . neither pushing him on nor holding him back.

The choice will be his they say. Frodo Baggins wishes he could stay . . . but . . .

 

 

 

 

Each step in this cold dank place is a trial. Rock, flat and unyielding, will not cradle soles aching from long forced march. Water seeps across smooth marble, turning dust to slick and treacherous slime to catch the unwary. He stumbles up dwarven designed stairs designed, too steep for shorter hobbit step. No softness here. All is hard edged, cold and unforgiving . . . all that does not crumble to dust beneath tentative footstep. Even the light from Gandalf’s staff cannot completely banish the shadows. And Frodo Baggins tries to recall sunshine, the soft silver wash of moonlight on wind flowed grass.

 

 

Many thousand years of leaves carpet the floor, their soft mulch embracing and cradling his instep. Starry blossoms cluster about his toes, so densely that he cannot avoid crushing them. Yet he feels no remorse for their petals fall willing sacrifice to his aching step, releasing a warm and delicate perfume to ease the steel cords binding his heart. 

Loam is dark, rich with the memory of leaf and wood. It feeds tall and ancient trees, a silver grey shadow of time past and unpassing. But Frodo’s brimming eyes see only grey homespun robes and gentle hand, flame and darkness.

 

 

Childhood trauma has leant impetus to the need to master boats and this flimsy looking craft holds no terror for him.

He balances easily on grey planking, planed smooth as silk beneath the balls of his feet. And below, he can feel the rush and pulse of Anduin as it seeks escape to the sea. Would that he could do the same. There is no escape for him.

This elven gift offers a safe and stable platform and Frodo wishes that he could take some of the craft’s calm certainty with him. Too soon he must step into another certainty.

 

 

 

Each step releases a foetid stench that robs his breath and sludge creeps up between his toes. No movement is safe and ground firm one moment, claws at his ankles the next, threatening to suck him down to lie with those already bound in its cloying grip.

Hands join feet as he inches across trembling slime. Will he ever again be free of its presence? Lands deception and treachery only echo soul’s battle and Frodo Baggins begins to lose himself. A friend’s hand may help him through the mire without, but none can catch him up from the mire within. 

 

 

Razor edges slice at the now tender soles of heavy, aching feet. The rocks are too newly birthed from molten earth to be smoothed by wind or water. Instead, they lay a treacherous carpet, ever willing to twist an ankle or stub a dragging and unwary toe.

This ground is parched; leaching what body moisture he has left with every plodding step. Powder fine ash puffs up around his toes, rising in still air to sear his already dry throat. Too weary to cough, he can only wheeze his protest at this latest discomfort. Will this be his last path?

 

 

 

Air is warm but soil still clings to the cool dampness of long winter. Refreshing now, it soothes flesh too long acquainted with fire and dust. So long captive on the enemy’s borders this land has hoarded her treasure and now she exhales life from every leaf and streamlet. 

Grass welcomes his step, its spring green ripeness mingled with sharp rosemary and the soft clean sweetness of mint. Is it the lands returning life or his own release from long burden that brings lightness to his step, enticing him to gambol like a spring lamb set free in lowland meadow?

 

 

 

Feet shuffle deep into the soft dampness of the border, headless of prospective chiding from Sam. Long summer has warmed the rich loam, sending tendrils of comfort through him. But it is not enough to dispel flesh’s chill, or fill echoing heart.

He knows now. Were he to plant himself so deeply that he took root like some venerable oak, this land could not nourish him as once it had. 

Something splashes upon his foot and he glances down, surprised to see a tear trembling on dark hair. Stepping back onto the lawn he bends to brush away his footprints.

 

 

Planed wood is pale and silk soft beneath his soles; the air filled with salt and sprinkled with sunlight. There is impermanence here . . . the surface that he stands upon rocking gently as it rides the shifting waves. 

His life too is shifting and he reaches out to grasp a familiar hand to steady himself against the strangeness of it. The fingers that clasp his firmly are swollen with age but the blue gaze that greets his is clear, filled with expectation and wonder. 

He spreads his feet, turns forward and lifts his chin to watch Anor dip beyond the prow.

 

 

Salt-rimed crystals scratch his toes. Once these were stones, gnawed by waves and carried on Ulmo’s broad chest to Valinor’s shore. He scoops a handful; noting its silvered colour is formed of many hues.

One tiny grain is the deep brown of Shire loam. As he tries to separate it a mischievous breeze sends all dancing from his grasp. Sparkling grains whisper, “Do not stay alone. Join us. Be.” 

Wavelets wash his feet, tugging gently as they trickle back, inviting him to play. He follows a little way as cool water and warm sun combine to balance his soul at last.

 

END


	4. Chapter 4

ILLUSIONS OF LIGHT

So very fragile. 

As a child, Faramir had been taken to visit relatives on the coast and, on the beaches there, had discovered many delicate shells. Their insides were palest pink silk and when held up, the sun glowed within . . . imparting a beautiful illusion of life.

His gaze dropped to the diminutive figure, strewn exhausted and boneless in his arms. Those shells could withstand the pounding of storm driven waves when they held life but would shatter beneath a careless step when washed up, empty upon the sand. 

Would Frodo Baggins be such, when Isildur's Bane had devoured his soul? 

END

 

Moria

Frodo supposed he should have been glad not to be in the watcher’s belly. But his own belly’s protest at having swallowed some of that brackish lake water did not make him feel particularly glad at present

A gentle hand upon his shoulder drew his gaze aside. “Are you alright, Frodo?” Legolas was crouching at his shoulder, clear blue eyes filled with concern.

The movement was enough to upset the delicate balance of Frodo’s stomach. He tried to lurch away but too late. Legolas wore shoes he reflected ruefully. And they used to look so pristine.

Was that Gimli, chuckling?

END

 

6th OCTOBER

“Does it still hurt, Frodo?” Pip swaddled him in blankets.

Hurt. A small word . . . more fitted to the sting of a scraped knee . . . not large enough to encompass the agony that seared Frodo. It could not describe the constriction that stole his breath or the icy shaft that speared his heart, making him fearful each beat would be the last. Words alone could never describe it. It was smell, taste, touch, sound and sight. It was his world.

“Not too badly, Pip.” 

Tears anointed Frodo’s hair as he was enfolded in Pippin’s warm arms.

END

 

‘TAINT NATURAL

“It’s true. Mr Elrond had trees growin’ in his house.”

Gaffer scowled. “T’aint natural. Trees is for outside.”

“Bagend has tree roots in the hall,” Sam defended.

“And a good umbrella stand they make. Roots is natural when you live ‘neath ground,” Gaffer asserted.

“Then trees in your house must be natural when you live above ground.” Sam squared his shoulders. “Said he asked them not to damage his house. Elves can do that.”

Gaffer swallowed his beer. “Talking to trees aint natural . . . and that’s a fact.” And there was the finality of one certain of the world’s proper order.

END

 

 

TO FEEL.

Loss drew fear with the tingling brush of her fingertips. But love stirred in the pliant warmth of her lips, roused in the way her slender curves conformed so perfectly against the planes of his and only deepened under the benison of time. 

Tenderness begat the pleasure of resting, a cool shadow in the warm sunlight of her mind, and succour as that same soft glow bathed the bleak corners of his own.

Now, as duty bound Elrond into watching as her ship slipped away, loss dripped chill into his heart with the fear that he may never feel again.

END

 

 

Voice  
I hardly know him. What was I was expectin’? I’m bent and gnarled as that old oak atop Bag End and he’s older than me. Suppose I wanted him to be like I remembered. Silly when I think on it. 

The hand on his stick is clawed with arthritis and there’s still that missin’ finger. His hair’s grey and longer. Suppose that comes of livin’ with elves. Seems they like long hair. His blue eyes have faded but leastways they’re peaceful. And its good to see his face is all laughter lines.

“Hello Sam.” 

Ah, now there’s my Mr Frodo.

END

 

BAGGINS BLUSHES

Daisy tipped her slops into the trough, bending to rescue a piglet she’d almost drowned. She hated looking after the pigs. They smelled.

And she’d really not been so bad. Her bodice laces had loosened when she was making the beds. Then Mam had called her to the kitchen and, well, she may have given them a helping hand. Handing him the glass of water Daisy had leaned low over the table.

She had to say this for Frodo Baggins. He went a pretty colour when he blushed.

That’s when Mam had spotted her and handed over the slop bucket.

END  
(from my Bells Table universe)

 

 

Axe Totin’ Mama

Gloin ducked, narrowly missing being felled by a frying pan. To come through the Battle of the Five Armies only to be nearly killed by his own wife. He’d never live it down.

“What did you think you were doing? Traipsing off all over the countryside, disturbing a dragon and causing the biggest battle since Moria, and all without telling me?” Denit yelled, lobbing another pan, and Gloin dived under the table.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he whimpered.

“Worry? I’ll give you, ‘worry’. My bedroom door is locked tonight. Maybe forever!”

Gloin ran when she hefted his axe.

END


	5. Chapter 5

**The Shores Of Sirion**

Brothers wrapped trembling arms about each other, dark hair flagged by the wind. Twin sets of tearful grey eyes, old in young faces, widened in terror as grim faced enemy formed an arc about them. Swords dripped gore upon the pristine sand. 

Earendil’s sons retreated to clean foam, but bloodied hands dragged them forth, cruelly thrusting them back into greed and oath and war. A blood haired warrior, features black with anger, stooped low to shout, “Where is Elwing?” 

Elrond straightened, pointed as a white bird called once before winging swiftly toward distant horizon. “They are gone,” he stated calmly.

END

 

**Bell’s End**

They say Mr Bilbo is queer and maybe his life could rightly be called that. But he’s done a lot of good, though he don’t boast on it, and folks is too soon to shout, “queer” and too closed mouthed on, “good”, if you ask me.

Me and Ham raised our youngsters strong but this will fall hard on them all. Still, I’m not too worried about goin’. My pain will soon be done and I know Mr Bilbo will see them through theirs. He’s always been there for us, and there’s nowt queer and much that’s good about that.

END

 

**Shieldmaiden of the Rohirrim**

“Goldilocks bring back that lid now!” Rose used her sternest voice. 

Goldilocks pointed to two of her older brothers who appeared to be fencing with a fish slice and a spatula. “But Ma. We need it.”

“Whatever for?” Rose ran harassed fingers through her hair, which had escaped its ribbons again.

“We’re doing the Battle of the Pelennor.” 

Rose spotted Merry and Pippin and sighed. “I can understand the fish slice but why the lid off my best jam pan?”

Goldilocks drew herself up to her full 5 year old height and announced proudly. “I’m a Shieldmaiden of the Rohirrim.” 

END


	6. B2Mem 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Works produced for the Live Journal Back To Middle earth challenge

**Shores of Healing**

Frodo could not get enough of the sea. Growing up in the Shire his dreams could never encompass it’s wide vista; its many moods.

When he longed for home he imagined white gulls carrying his thoughts to green fields and warm hearth. When anger filled his soul he screamed his pain to the storm, where crashing waves scoured him clean. When happy he danced along the water’s edge watching droplets catch the sunlight. Finally, when peace filled his soul, he lay upon warm sand and closed his eyes, letting the rhythmic sound of waves lull him to his final sleep.

END

 

**Are We Having Fun Yet?**

Leaning back on his heels Elrond brushed a strand of hair from his cheek. Celebrian tucked soil about the last bush then glanced aside and giggled.

She produced a handkerchif. “You have a smudge. Spit,” she instructed. With a grimace, Elrond obliged and she attacked his cheek.

“Ouch! You’re enjoying this.”

“You take yourself too seriously, Melleth nin,” Celebrian replied with a chuckle. “Life can be fun, too.”

 

Deciding he really ought to test that Elrond kissed her thoroughly before sitting back with a triumphant grin. “Was that fun enough for you?”

Celebrian smiled archly. “Definately. Can we have more?”

END

 

**LET US GO**

“No” 

Two sets of perfectly matched lips pouted. “But Ada . . .”

“No. You will complete your Quenya translation first.”

Two sets of beautiful grey eyes grew misty. “But it’s snowing, Ada.”

“And it will still be snowing in one hour’s time. When you have completed your lesson.”

Two dark heads bent to their task and Elrond watched two tears splash upon two parchments.

“Oh, very well. Go. But I expect those translations upon my desk by the noon bell tomorrow.”

Elrond watched as his sons hurtled down the steps and dived into the already banking snow.

Celebrian’s hands snaked about his waist from behind and she laid her head upon his shoulder to whisper in his ear. “You made it snow, did you not?”

Her husband smiled. “Perhaps.”

END

 

**Lioness**

My Garren was away to the Pelennor with the soldiers, thinking to keep us safe. He said the gates would hold and when they fell it was too late to run for the next circle. We were trapped in the shop. 

That’s when the southerner broke in waving a sword, blood soaked and screaming some foul language. Just remembering those eyes makes me shudder. I’m only a seamstress but I sneaked up behind and stabbed him in the neck with the shears. War is not my trade but this is our home and my family and nobody threatens my babies!

END


	7. Chapter 7

**INKLING**

“He sent me away, Majesty.” 

Elessar waived the young scribe upright. He hoped he never grew used to such obeisance. “Did he give you a reason Master scrivener?”

“The Ringbearer seemed somewhat vexed sir. I fear I was too busy ducking to determine the precise nature of his displeasure.”

“Ducking?”

“He threw an ink pot,” the youth complained.

The scribe turned to display a large stain upon the back of his tunic.

Elessar smiled. Frodo Baggins was absolutely determined to remaster use of a pen with his damaged hand. His grip seemed better today. That pot must have been heavy.

END

 

**G.amgee C.riminal I.nvestigation S.ervice**

Hamfast poked at the spider husk. “Wonder how it died.”

Rose considered. “Accident? Fell off a wall?”

Merry grinned. “Suicide? Jumped off a wall.”

“Nah,” Primrose announced. “It dehyrolated.”

Daisy sniffed. “Dehydrated! And it rained this morning.”

“Then it drownded,” Ruby asserted.

“Shot with an arrow?” Daisy suggested tentatively. They all laughed. An arrow would leave a hole.

“Maybe it bled to death,” Pippin offered gleefully before adding uncertainly, “Do spiders have blood?”

Goldilocks jumped up, proud in her one-up-man-ship on her siblings. “It was WAR! I saw Ma whack it with her hair brush.”

“Isn’t that murder?” asked Pippin.

END

 

 

**The Cloven Vale**

Held aloft by ancient caryatid that crumble against walls knit when spring was young, roofs slope and cluster down steep valley side. Water thunders beneath bridges spanning dizzying chasms, or trickles, indolent along paths wound through mossy woodland, and layered moonbows arc down the glistening steps of a waterfall that plunges into echoing cleft far below.

Air is mist soft and threaded with sweet nightingale, bearing the delicate scent of night blossom from secret glades, while deep pools reflect Earendil’s shimmering passage. 

The valley exhales peace. Darkness presses at the gate but healers heart withstands, while hope is nurtured here.

END

 

 

**Awakening**

It was not the ruin but the silence that made Legolas uneasy upon arrival in Ithilien. He supposed there were birds and insects, or how would flowers multiply and berries ripen? They must have learned to draw no unwanted attention.

Now he listened as a blackbird sang out the borders of its territory and sparrows squabbled in the hawthorn. Grasshopper chirped near his right foot and in unseen pool a trout splashed.

An inquisitive bee landed for a moment upon Frodo’s cheek and dark lashes quivered.

“Gandalf?”

“I see it. Go and tell our new King that the Ringbearer awakens.”

END


	8. Chapter 8

Banner

The embroidery frame stood empty for years in the room her parents shared.

Returning from Lothlorien, Arwen carried it to her own. On black silk, she traced tree, crown and stars; a device not seen in Middle earth for generations. The tree she worked in silk, white as snow upon Mount Mindolluin, the crown in mithril and gold. For stars she netted gems splintering light to dance with hope. Each stitch matched lone lover’s step in the wild world. 

She thought all wrought in secret. Elrond did not challenge for if not for throne it would serve to cover bier.

END

 

Under A Cloud

Legolas reined in, drawing down his hood against the squall. He risked a glance at the sky, sighing as he saw clouds piled up in grey layers above the mountain peaks. They suited his mood well. 

At least Elrond did not have Thranduil’s quixotic temper, he mused. Legolas had been left in no doubt that Gollum’s escape was his mistake and his father had all but thrown him onto the road to Imladris. He worried how Mithrandir and Aragorn would react to the news. 

Legolas motioned his escort forward. It was time to face whatever further censure was his due.

END

 

She-elf!

“A little further, my love.” Elrond coaxed, smiling. 

Celebrian’s eyes flashed as she twisted her elbow from his grasp. “Do not, ‘My love’ me.” 

“Walking will help,” he tried placating.

Celebrian waved at her enormous waistline. “You try walking with this!”

Elrond made to take her elbow again and flinched as his wife’s voice became grinding ice spawned by Helcaraxe. “Touch my elbow once more and I will ensure that you never father another child in what will become a very short life.”

Elrond made a swift retreat, considering the feasability of wearing his armour in a birthing room.

END 

 

Fur

Pippin drew his new, fur lined cloak more closely against the chill wind flowing down off the mountain. Great Smials had many fine things, but there was never occasion in the Shire for fur lined jackets or cloaks.

He wondered what animal the fur had originally graced and felt a little guilty. But then, he could not imagine Elrond’s folk killing any animal just for the pelt. And if it died for food it made sense to use the skin.

He huddled deeper, offering thanks to whatever creature it had been and wishing it happy hunting, wherever it was now.

END


	9. Chapter 9

SUGAR

Sam watched, fascinated as Ma used one of Da’s old hammers to break a piece from the sugar cone. Dropping it into her mortar she attacked with the pestle, first pounding, and then grinding it to fine powder.

It was a birthday present from the Mr Bilbo and Master Frodo and when the Gamgees had finished admiring this luxury Ma declared she would bake their benefactors a cake fit for a king, leastwise a Thain, to thank them.

Sam gauged the size of the cone, mouth watering as he considered the number of cakes Ma could make with the rest.

END

 

Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody. Mark Twain (1835-1910) (A prompt from lindahoyland on lj)

THE DARK SIDE OF ITHIL

Others said it was impossible to heal with any darkness in the soul, yet he disproved them daily for it festered within him, even all these years after Celebrian’s departure.

He applied a clean dressing to a leg stump. Orcs took as much pleasure in maiming elves as in killing, knowing such injuries would remain forever. Some wounds even he could not heal and they brought blackness boiling to the surface of Elrond’s soul, like scum in a pan, that he must lid tightly.

Retribution was easy but compassion took strength, a lesson many only learned through walking Mandos’ halls.

END

 

REMEMBRANCE

Cutting through the kitchen garden, seeking solitude in Rivendell’s woodland, Frodo was halted by the yeasty aroma of fresh baked bread. Memory he believed plundered burst, full blown and bright, in his mind.

Frodo, new come to Bag End, had called at No.3 Bagshot Row to collect bread from Mistress Gamgee. He recalled waiting in a steamy kitchen for the last loaf from the oven, inhaling yeast and watching flour float in a sunbeam. 

Bell motherly presence died before he left the Shire but Frodo tucked her memory safely away, as shield against the ring ravaged emptiness of his soul.

END

 

THE EYES OF A LADY

The artist set aside his lens and wiped clean his brush. When the queen asked him to paint a miniature of The Elessar he had requested a viewing of the coronation robes, for surely Her Majesty wanted an image of her lord in his regal finery? But the lady had produced a muddy and rather odorous leather coat, asking that he imagine her husband as he would look after weeks sleeping in the wilds.

He was quite proud of the likeness but he supposed he would never understand the mind of a lady, particularly an elven lady, in these matters.

END


	10. Chapter 10

**ASTRIDE THE AGES**

How could a people step confidently into the future without understanding their past?

About Elrond books and documents formed tottering heaps, titles lost beneath centuries of mildew, droppings and dust. Here was housed the collective knowledge and history of the people of Numenor, perhaps some even saved from the flood. He caressed a tattered and faded document. Could Elros’ hand grace some of these pages?

Elrond drew a deep breath, resisting the urge to sneeze, and pushed up his sleeves. “Take everything out then clean and catalogue it,” the lore-master instructed his helpers.

“Gondor will have its honourable past restored.”

END

 

**Saruman Ring-maker**

High in his dark tower Sauron’s blazing eyes belied his beatific smile. These men, elves, dwarves and wizards were too easy to manipulate. Thirsty for power, he had only to offer the merest drop of knowledge . . .

Saruman would create his ring and it would destroy him. His was but a puny footnote to those the Noldor essayed under Sauron’s tutelage and soon even the three they had hidden would fall to their Dark Lord’s will.

“I am Saruman the Wise, Saruman Ring-maker, Saruman of Many Colours!”

Baradur shook as Sauron’s laughter splintered the acrid air. 

So easy.

END

 

**Stitch By Stitch**   
_Dedicated to the memory of my Mum_

Even beneath the cliff, persistent rain soaked them through. So Frodo tried to think of somewhere warm and dry.

Attempting to recall Bag End, Bell Gamgee’s kitchen stole softly into his mind instead; the warmth of the range, the mouth-watering smell of baking bread, children shrieking delightedly in the garden and the vision of work worn hands setting neat stitches in Ham’s frayed shirt collar.

Bell was gone but her memory reminded him why he was here: so many kitchens with their own Bells, holding the world together with their love one tiny stitch at a time.

“Come along hobbitses.”

END


	11. Chapter 11

The world and its inhabitants (midges and all) belong to JRR Tolkien. This is fanfic.

**Gloop**

When Sam discovered a little rill before supper the hobbits raced to paddle in its freezing water. Sighing in pleasure, Pippin used a corner of blanket to dry between the last two toes on his left foot, thankful to finally be rid of the foetid stink of the Midgewater Marshes. He could almost cope with midges but having foul smelling gloop oozing between his toes was far beyond disgusting. 

For a while he had coveted Strider’s long boots. Now he wrinkled his nose at that still gloop encrusted footwear, feeling no envy at all. Just how did one clean boots?

END

 

**SUN SEEKER**

Frodo avoided Bag End’s cellars, even after the removal of Sharkey’s detritus. One look before the cleansing stirred up images to haunt him for many nights.

As Deputy Mayor Frodo was busy so the cleaning fell to Sam. He never spoke of what they found amongst the machines but Frodo knew some had been taken away and buried.

Knowing nothing of the cellars’ history, or their counterparts in Mordor, Rose used them for storage. Let her rejoice in the sun a little longer, they decided. 

Now the book was finished it was time for Frodo to seek his own sun. 

END

 

**Supper Time**

She took time to wrap it carefully for Sneak said there were two for her feast.

Long ages she had sampled of Middle earth’s faes. Dwarves tasted of stone and metal, Men of pride and striving. Elves were a heady but dyspeptic mix of light and power. Orcs were bitter and dry. 

Here was a new taste; sweetness dressed with a metallic hint of a power like The Dark One. But that only added a frisson to the meal to come. She sensed the other approaching now, sweet loam and anger; very tasty.

It yelled, thrusting forth its glittering sting. 

END


	12. Chapter 12

HENNETH ANNUN

Henneth Annun, the Window On The West. He loved this place from the moment he and his men set up base here. Faramir grew so used to the rumble of the falls as they tumbled over the cliff above and fell in a glittering curtain across the entrance that when he returned to Minas Tirith, he had difficulty sleeping without it’s sound.

Damrod had quietly questioned his wisdom in sheltering this strange pair within its thick walls but something about these travellers encouraged him to trust and aid.

“The supper is laid, My Lord.”

He turned from the moonlit curtain.

END

 

SHOE

The meadow was fragrant and lush and he was conflicted; to munch until he exploded or run until he dropped? He had been resting in the dry place for too long however so he chose running.

Bill snorted with delight. The singing ones had fitted him with shoes as light as cobwebs and he bucked for joy before dropping to roll and squirm on his back. They sang of a long journey ahead but he didn’t mind that. His coat shone, his belly was full and his heart overflowed with life and love for his new friends.

He was ready.

END

 

SOCKS

To hobbits this daily ritual was fascinating. Boots they knew but they had never seen socks. Aragorn said they prevented blisters. Gimli only sniffed disdainfully at laundry and Legolas wore no socks. Gandalf, as always, was a mystery.

Sam looked up from his chewing to watch Boromir collecting his spare pair from the rock on which they had been drying. A little distance away Aragorn was darning the toes of his only pair and Sam smiled to think what his sister, Daisy, would say about those “great cobblin’ stitches”. 

He was learning all kinds of new things on this journey.

END


	13. Chapter 13

**Home Comforts**

“Now, Mr Frodo. You just climb in here.”

Frodo complied willingly, sinking into the blessed relief of soft feather mattress and pillows. Sam tucked a wrapped hot water bottle close at his left side and then drew up the eiderdown and covers. Within moments his master was cocooned in warmth.

“Here’s your warm milk, Mr Frodo. I added some honey.” Rosie smiled gently, placing the cup in his hand.

Frodo sighed. The Houses of Healing had been nice. Elrond’s house had been better. But there was nothing like the comfort of your own bed, as only another hobbit would understand.

END

 

**TUMBLED**

While the gangplank was stowed and sails unfurled Frodo had time to consider the shoreline beyond the harbour wall.

There, white cliffs reared against a pale autumn sky, feet strewn with a wrack of cobbles. Great chunks of those strong, seemingly permanent cliffs had been shorn away. Detached, they were tumbled mercilessly between the fates of land and sea; worn down to boulders then cobbles, pebbles and finally sand, to be borne away on the tide and wash up on some distant shore. 

Sails billowed and snapped. Frodo felt the boat glide quietly on ebbing tide toward the waiting sunset.

END

 

**Sand-castles**

From this distance Frodo and Bilbo could be taken for children, sitting on the golden sand with faces upturned to the sun. Elrond recalling when he and Elros had brought bucket and spade to such a beach, building sand-castles until called home to supper.

The periain seemed to gain as much enjoyment as Elrond and his brother ever had, from what was to them a strange new environment. Perhaps he should introduce them to the pastime of castle building. 

Grinning, he kicked off his shoes and wiggled his toes. Perhaps he should also re-introduce himself to the pastime.

END


	14. Killing Storm

KILLING STORM

Within Imladris shortening days bring quiet as birds depart and mammals scuttle to the safety of dark burrows. Mountains, once shelter from winter's excess, now funnel autumn breezes, swirling dry leaves into clattering vortexes. First snow ices surrounding peaks while residents shelter from rain storms that erase trails and drown river meadows.

Foraged wood feeds fresh kindled hearths, offering sweet incense to threatening skies. Instruments are tuned, embroideries stretched, quills sharpened, arrows fletched and knives honed as residents prepare for winter's dreadful siege.

Outside, autumn dives headlong into killing storm but inside ageless life endures, calmly listening for dooms' footstep.

END

 

HOARDING

Atop Bag End Frodo surveyed the West Farthing. Never had there been such a harvest. 

The Shire shone like some magical dragon hoard. Yellow gold wheat fields whispered beside flowing silvered barley, hedgerows glowed copper and dripped blood garnet berries, as though land could not contain all the life pulsing within.

Following last year's ruin these excesses seemed miraculous. Jam pans bubbled sweetly in kitchens and early apples were pressing. The harvesters were called and soon barns would groan with their bounty. Then would come parties.

Frodo hoarded this memory, knowing next harvest would be his last in the Shire.

END

 

CROWDED WITH EMPTINESS

Fastred’s chins quivered and Elanor cried openly as she clutched the worn Red Book to her bosom. All last evening Sam’s children had begged him to stay, to move in with them. But, as though Rosie’s love had been the dam, her death allowed the sea to breach his soul, salt breeze beckoning.

He watched the grey gulls circling high about crumbling elven towers, knowing at last why Frodo had taken this road, crowded with emptiness, to The Havens. 

It was time for this last Ringbearer to take the ship that runs West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

END


	15. Chapter 15

CHILDHOOD LOST

“What are you doing?” Denethor roared.

Faramir ducked behind his older brother and Boromir's voice cracked as he offered, “Building a snowman?”

“What have I told you about shouting?”

“That Mama is sick and we must be quiet,” Faramir whispered.

At that moment their mother must have spoken for Denethor turned back from the window, only calling over his shoulder, “Oh, just get out of my sight.”

The boys wasted no time in complying, although Faramir was crying by now. Later, when wishing them goodnight, mother hugged them very close. It was their last memory of her.

END

 

 

PICKING UP THE THREADS

He picked up the cloak, fingering its silky texture and watching threads shimmer faintly in the autumn sunlight. He rarely wore it here, attempting to look like other ordinary hobbit, but even two years later folk considered him “a mite touched”. If they only knew how touched.

Sam stuck his head around the door. “You ready, Mr Frodo?”

“Just coming.”

Frodo patted the star-glass in his pocket and swung the elven cloak about his shoulders. He would wear it openly on this last journey, no longer denying his darkest history as he set sail in hope of future light.

END

 

 

PICTURES ARE NOT ENOUGH

She picked up the book. Its red leather cover was soft, edges darkened from much handling, for it first belonged to Mr Bilbo and had travelled far and back again.

Rose tested the weight, surprised it was not heavier considering the import of the tales hidden within. Random selection of a page revealed Mr Frodo's painstaking rendering of a willow tree but pictures could not tell all. For the love of her children but mostly for their father she needed to know all, not just the safe bits read out to her . . . needed to understand.

“Sam, teach me letters.”

END

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Yuletide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabbles written for the 2016 Yuletide4frodo lj group.

It all belongs to JRR Tolkien. I only own my angsty imagination.

Candle Glow

Rosie's lit the Yule candle and we shared it's flame with Number Three. Now it sits in the window, lettin' everyone know that we're all one an' even on the darkest day light will come. There's a party down the hill an' we'll be goin' later but now we're just sittin' round the fire with cups of mulled wine.

I look at Mr Frodo across the hearth, his pale face lit by the fire. I reckon he's like that Yule candle. What worries me is that once the wax has melted there's nothin' left but the memory of somethin' beautiful.

END

 

First Yule

The folk of Hobbiton had dressed Farmer Cotton's barn in every scrap greenery they could find. Pantries had been emptied to fill the lines of trestle tables, dressed with bright cloths and best china, and Gaffer Gamgee took charge of the dispensing from several kegs of ale.

There was still much work to be done cleaning up the Shire but on this Yuletide everyone had downed tools to celebrate the return to life. All were invited, regardless of previous allegiances, for now was the time of healing.

A cheer went up as Mayor Baggins touched Yule Flame to the bonfire.

END

 

Yuletide Blessing

Frodo was ushered into the empty Hall of Fire, by light of a single candle. “There is no fire,” he noted. 

Elrond smiled. “Always have I set flame to the first fire of the year as reminder that Imladris is a place of hospitality. I understand there is a Shire custom to carry fire from door to door at year's turning.” He handed over the candle.

Misty eyed, Frodo set wick to kindling, bowing to the first tiny flames as he recited the Yule blessing. “May you have hearth to comfort, oven to cook and candle to guide you home.”

END


	17. Moonlit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trio of drabbles giving glimpses of the life of Arwen, written in response to a B2MeM 2017 prompt.

WAXING

Arwen remembered, as an elleth, sitting with Adar and Naneth in their valley's midnight garden. Together, they gazed up at the stars and Naneth would sometimes teeze her into counting them. Adar used to chuckle as he explained that even elven sight could not tally their vast number. 

Arwen used to like the glow of a full moon, because then some fainter stars disappeared and that made counting so much easier. But a new moon was best, for then the stars could be seen more clearly and Naneth and Adar would stay to help, when her still limited numeracy failed.

END

 

FULL

Arwen lifted grey eyes to the huge moon pendant upon the horizon, hand straying to the gravid swell of her belly as she felt again the ripple of contracting muscles. The pains were faster and stronger now and it seemed this daughter was impatient to greet the world.

As the pain faded she smiled. Eldarion had been named by mortal tradition but Aragorn was content to let Arwen choose their daughter's first name, in the elven way. One more glance at the red-gold moon, then Arwen returned to their chamber, where Aragorn waited to welcome little Colithel to the family.

END

 

WANING

Through tear-misted eyes Arwen could barely make out the fine sickle-sliver of the dying moon. Hard won memory painted undying green, scattered with the delicate gold and silver stars of elanor and niphrodel but now brown and matted leaves were damp but soft beneath her back as she lay down. 

Time had come at last to Lorien and here Arwen's time would end. On this hill had she made her vow and here she would see it fulfilled. A cold wind swayed creaking branches above her, obscuring the tiny mithril moon. When it reappeared she saw it not at all.

END


	18. Cake

CAKE

“Will there be cake?” Pippin winced as his tummy grumbled. It seemed an age since eating luncheon and long past any civilised teatime.

“I hope so,” Merry replied. “Although I'm not even sure Lothlorien elves eat,” he whispered in aside to the frowning Sam.

Frodo was more optimistic as he steered them all to the board. “I'm certain there'll be lots of good things to eat.” 

Once there, all faces brightened for the tables groaned with sparkling drinks, sandwiches, fruit, pastries, and all manner of confectionery including . . . 

“Cake!” crowed an ecstatic Pippin and Merry.

END

 

CRAFTING

It took the combined skills of Frodo, Merry and even Bilbo, to teach Pippin how to fold a paper boat. Pippin did not find the task difficult but rather he kept getting distracted, at one point placing the almost complete craft upon his head and running about the garden with a hazel switch, playing warrior king.

Bilbo walked away, chuckling, returning half an hour later with a picnic hamper and pointing them in the direction of the river. Their repast spread upon a blanket the lads now crouched on the stepping stones, watching three little paper boats sail away downstream.

END

 

THE LOREMASTER'S LAUGH

Raised in Imladris, Celebrian saw Loremaster Elrond as a dour figure, not given to amusement. Childhood friends posited that his iron face would split assunder if he smiled.

This year Elrond's annual visit to Lothlorien coincided with a short sojourn made by her parents and, consequently, Amdir requested that they all dine with him. Celebrian had demured at first but strangely, her Adar insisted. 

Elrond's voice was rich and more captivating than remembered . . . and he laughed. She rather liked this twinkling-eyed Elrond, throwing back his head to laugh at Amdir's tale of acquisitive dwarves and inquisitive horses.

END 

 

AWAKENING

Shielding his eyes from the sparkling shimmer of sun on the waves, Elrond drew peace from Celebrian's arm entwined with his. Combined gazes dropped to where Bilbo reclined at the foot of the cliff, the remains of a very generous repast scattered about him on a blanket.

Frodo paddled along the shifting waters edge, hands tucked in his pockets. For a moment the Ringbearer stilled, looking out to sea. Then, as one awakening from sleep, Frodo Baggins flung his arms wide, throwing back his head so that a fresh breeze carried his merry laugh to the watchers.

Free at last. 

END


	19. Arwen Undomiel

“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” John Steinbeck 

PERFECT LADY

In formative years she had been the perfect, dutiful daughter and loving granddaughter. Lauded as the equal of Luthien the Fair, she learned to dance and sing, to embroider and paint. When her mother departed for the West she ensured that guests were comfortable and her father need have no care for the daily running of his household.

In this, however, she would not be perfect. In this she would follow her own path, whether others approved or no. She took his callused hand and met his gaze steadily. “I will cleave to you, Dunadan, and turn from the Twilight.”

END

 

DAUGHTER. ARWEN!

Sheltered from summer heat by ancient willow's curtain, they began their waltz, a century of loving synchronising their steps to spiral ever higher upon passion's slopes.

They had not spoken of it but he saw, deep within the silvered blue of her eyes; a child, its down of hair as dark as winter midnight, suckling at ripened breast.

Pausing, she watched him bend to kiss that beaded breast, felt his lips bow in soft smile of affirmation. Then he took her hand and soul to spin them both to the summit until they crested upon the mingled whispers, “Daughter!”, “Arwen!”

END


	20. Chapter 20

Shoe

The meadow was fragrant and lush and he was conflicted; to munch until he exploded or run until he dropped? He had been resting in the dry place for too long however so he chose running.

Bill snorted with delight. The singing ones had fitted him with shoes as light as cobwebs and he bucked for joy before dropping to roll and squirm on his back. They sang of a long journey ahead but he didn’t mind that. His coat shone, his belly was full and his heart overflowed with life and love for his new friends.

He was ready.

END

 

Socks

To hobbits this daily ritual was fascinating. Boots they knew but they had never seen socks. Aragorn said they prevented blisters. Gimli only sniffed disdainfully at laundry and Legolas wore no socks. Gandalf, as always, was a mystery. 

Sam looked up from his chewing to watch Boromir collecting his spare pair from the rock on which they had been drying. A little distance away Aragorn was darning the toes of his only pair and Sam smiled to think what his sister, Daisy, would say about those “great cobblin’ stitches”. 

He was learning all kinds of new things on this journey.

END

 

Sand-castles

From this distance Frodo and Bilbo could be taken for children, sitting on the golden sand with faces upturned to the sun. Elrond recalling when he and Elros had brought bucket and spade to such a beach, building sand-castles until called home to supper.

The periain seemed to gain as much enjoyment as Elrond and his brother ever had, from what was to them a strange new environment. Perhaps he should introduce them to the pastime of castle building. 

Grinning, he kicked off his shoes and wiggled his toes. Perhaps he should also re-introduce himself to the pastime.

END

 

TUMBLED

While the gangplank was stowed and sails unfurled Frodo had time to consider the shoreline beyond the harbour wall.

There, white cliffs reared against a pale autumn sky, feet strewn with a wrack of cobbles. Great chunks of those strong, seemingly permanent cliffs had been shorn away. Detached, they were tumbled mercilessly between the fates of land and sea; worn down to boulders then cobbles, pebbles and finally sand, to be borne away on the tide and wash up on some distant shore. 

Sails billowed and snapped. Frodo felt the boat glide quietly on ebbing tide toward the waiting sunset.

END


	21. Golden Farewell

GOLDEN FAREWELL

Abandoning the illusive quest for sleep, Frodo wrapped himself against the chill and slipped from Bag End, to settle with tea and pipe upon the new bench by the gate.

In a hawthorn down the lane, blackbird broke the silence and others swelled his chorus, as Anar crept stealthily from behind the hills, to paint the grey sky, palest gold. In the valley woodsmoke mingled with morning mist as fires were stoked for first breakfast and cows lowed mournfully for milking. Within Bag End a babe fretted.

Frodo committed all to memory on this, his last dawn in the Shire.

END

 

HERITAGE

Estel eyes the kit with trepidation. Soap and fat little brush are innocuous but the knife looks lethal and why a pot of cream? 

Elrond instructs his heart-son. “Wet the brush and apply lather with a circular motion.” Estel feels confident in this at least. 

“Now scrape the knife against the direction of hair growth, pulling the skin taut.” Estel fights laughter as Elrond demonstrates the facial contortions required.

“Ouch!” He presses a finger to the nick and Elrond holds up the pot.

“Where did you learn about shaving, Adar?”

“Isildur.” The name reverberates ominously between them.

END

 

LOREMASTERS

The Shire did not produce paper, making it an expensive commodity. 

Of course, Bilbo Baggins could afford it but packages from Rivendell were always welcome. Sometimes they came with the carter, via Bree, but on other mornings he would find a carefully wrapped package on the doorstep; perhaps left by some passing traveller to the Havens. It seemed Loremaster Elrond remembered a stray comment, in which Burglar Bilbo declared his love of writing.

Now, as Bilbo sat in his study, he heard Frodo in the kitchen, carefully slicing the smooth, creamy sheets into a size more suited to hobbit fingers.

END

 

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

Faramir presumes that all soldier's dreams are troubled islands. Within Ithilien's close-quartered hideaway sleep is oft salted with cries and his men huddle about fires in the wee hours; weary eyes red-rimmed within pale faces.

He remembers his enemies varied faces, their pain, surprise and fear, resignation, even sometimes their relief. If any killing could be considered easier it would be orcs for they have little humanity left, but these men of the South ride the high-cresting wave of his dreams with their fading eyes.

He wonders, when the time comes, what his enemy will find in Faramir's departing gaze.

END


	22. Starlight Breaking

GOLDEN MEMORY

Departing Lorien, Sam quickly bent to collect one fine Mallorn leaf. He thought it lost in Mordor until Gandalf produced his tattered pack some weeks after their rescue. At the bottom, dry and brown, the leaf crumbled to dust, and he cried that such beauty should fade.

Then the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood arrived for the wedding of their granddaughter. Galadriel bent to gift Sam with a new, beautifully formed golden leaf, murmuring as she kissed his brow, “This one will not fade. Keep it in remembrance of what was and in hope of what may be.”

END

 

HOME

Elrond leaned out over the rail to watch dolphins leap and play beside the prow. Where the ship sliced through waves sunlight caught the spray, creating a miniature rainbow. Tears prickled as he remembered those that had formed about the base of the many waterfalls of Imladris, his home for centuries untold. The home where they had raised their children. Would he ever see his sons again? Arwen, he had already lost. 

He had never seen the West. His gaze was drawn to the horizon, where she who still held his heart, waited. He was going home. Going to Celebrian.

END

 

SHADOW

As a faunt, shadows troubled him. Enter a candle-lit room and they flickered in wild and unpredictable shapes. Outside Frodo peopled the deep shadowed woodlands with evil trolls and dragons.

Then Uncle Bilbo came, and they strolled among the trees or played shadow tag in the garden. In the evening Frodo sat in Bilbo's lap as shadow rabbits and birds cavorted on the nursery wall. Bilbo made his nephew's world a safe and happy place again.

Now shadows have returned and tall hooded shapes devour gentle childhood friends. Frodo is swallowed too; become a shadow of that once bright child.

END

 

THERE IS A TIME

His was the ring of air. The gifting was hurried, with no time to interrogate his friend in its uses, so it took time to truly learn its ways. Even after three thousand years, it still had the capacity to surprise. 

Now Master Baggins and Mithrandir return, with tales of fire and battle, death and gold, and their arrival brings a strange, faint discord, to the clean airs of Imladris. Sinking into domed, blue depths, Elrond attempts to isolate the cause but the ring of air is silent. 

Then he hears Vilya's soft whisper, “The time is not yet. Wait.” 

END

 

STARLIGHT BREAKING

It seemed every elf in Middle earth now travelled through Imladris, making for the Havens, and Elrond understood their longing. 

He settled upon a boulder at the edge of the lake, grateful for a few hours of peace. Serene black water reflected the timeless stars of Elbereth so perfectly, that Elrond felt he floated within the very midst of the heavens. Then the image wavered, as a thousands raindrops began to fall. A circle widened, intersecting another and another and another, setting the whole surface in motion. 

The time of starlight was past. The Fellowship must set out this dawn.

END


End file.
